


Little Blue Pills

by Recourse



Series: Damaged Goods [1]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Drunk Sex, F/F, Non-Consensual Kissing, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Themes, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recourse/pseuds/Recourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria and Max try to help each other following Chloe's death and Nathan's arrest, in the only ways that they know how.</p><p>They bring out the worst in each other instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Fucking Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, remember when I said I wouldn't write more Life is Strange? Remember when I was a gigantic fucking liar?
> 
> Inspired heavily by Days 'N Daze's ["Little Blue Pills"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqLmFyVPjII) series. This one is not going to end well. Read the tags and stay safe.

Maxine fucking Caulfield.

What right does she have to wander around looking like death? Sure, her friend died, but at least she wasn’t some fucking hidden psychopath, kidnapping girls and drugging them and taking pictures. And videos.

No. Victoria took the video.

But still. Fuck Max. Fuck the way she’s always staring down in class, fuck the way that it makes Victoria’s fingers clench to look at her, fuck the way that jabbing at her with words and written messages doesn’t fucking work anymore. She doesn’t even wipe her slate after Victoria writes SELFIE HO on it. Walks right past it. Sure, it’s a weak attack, but it should provoke _something_. Her eyes are dead, blank blue. All the time. Provoking a response is impossible. There’s no power in trying to hurt her anymore, to tear her down. Especially not now, now that Jefferson’s gone and they’re trying to find some replacement. She didn’t even submit a photo to the contest, so Victoria can’t even win there. Rivalry’s less engaging when one side is a walking corpse.

So maybe that’s why she’s wandering around this pretentious San Francisco gallery and thinking about Maxine fucking Caulfield. Dissatisfaction. And all these photos that are so much better than her shit work. And that picture she saw in Max’s journal almost two weeks ago, lying open before class. Yeah, a selfie, but shit. It was so warm. Full of this quiet life. Max doesn’t have that in her anymore.

If Jefferson had still been in charge of judging, Victoria probably wouldn’t have won. Or maybe she would have. Because he would’ve taken her.

This place is suffocating.

She barges out past Principal Wells, stuffing his face at the buffet. She hasn’t spoken to anyone yet. She can barely stand the thought. She hasn’t earned this success. She’s not good enough. The whole world had to turn out to be twisted and fucked for her to end up here. As she leans against the wall outside and fishes in her purse for her cigarettes, she knows she should be at least fucking _trying_. Faking. Like always. To get herself to a place where she doesn’t disappoint those lofty fucks who own the Chase Space. To get somewhere close to being a professional photographer. To get into the high life before her moment passes, and it’s going to, if she lets it.

God, but what if she let it?

What if she just fucking gave up? What if she didn’t care? Nathan cared, Nathan cared a whole fucking lot, and look what he turned into. Look what he did to try and get in the good graces of a renowned photographer. Look how pathetic he is, sobbing on TV, “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to.” Look what Victoria’s already done to get here, _helping_ him, in some sick way, capturing Kate in her moment of vulnerability and throwing it up on the web. Why? To look better in comparison? Because Nathan told her it’d be funny? Was he covering for himself?

The cigarette between her fingers shakes. She hasn’t really slept in days. Quick moments where she passed out, like on the plane here. But a whole lot more chain-smoking in her room, thinking too much, too hard, developing photos in the darkroom late at night, fucking around in Photoshop and overworking shots until they died. Nothing’s come out right. It’s all shit.

Max uses an instant camera. Her shit’s effortless. Easy. It comes to her like she was born to do it, while Victoria, who actually _was_ , can’t do anything with the best equipment money can buy.

Victoria flicks the spent cigarette away and checks herself in her hand-mirror. She still looks like a Chase, despite everything. She’s still fucking beautiful. Maybe a little heavy on the makeup recently, but it hides the bags, and it’s only obvious if you’re looking for it.

Fine. Fake it. These assholes don’t know good photography anyway. They like Jefferson’s stuff. She heard a conversation about how much his work is gonna be worth, and hers is so much like his, a pale imitation made to try and win her the contest. And he's a monster. It shows in his framing, his lighting, his subjects, and it always has. And they like that.

She heads back inside, holding her chin up high, her eyes hard gray. She’ll blow them away, because they’re stupid enough to let her.

* * *

She has to solve this sleep problem somehow.

That’s why she went to Frank as soon as she was back in town. Little blue pills rattle in her purse as she walks through the gate to the Blackwell dorms. She doesn’t know where he got an actual prescription bottle of the stuff. She didn’t ask. He’s not worth that much time, and the flight was late enough in the first place.

She has a dozen phone numbers and e-mail addresses and open offers of gallery displays on her phone. She has people inside waiting to see her, to celebrate her return with a dormroom trip. But, fuck. She’s so tired. She canceled the plans remotely, texting them a flat no. It felt good. It feels good. She’s sick of them already, sick of this school, and definitely sick of being awake.

As she rounds the corner, a small silhouette blocks the waning moon. Sitting on the edge of the rooftop, staring down into the courtyard. Totally motionless until they spot each other. Max just looks away. Her hair’s frazzled as all hell.

Victoria just stands there for a few seconds. Her first thought is, _she’s gonna jump_ , but she’s not. She’s just sitting there. The second thought makes more sense: _She’s not sleeping either._

Well.

She has something that can fix that, something that can help get this school somewhere normal again. Get a rivalry going again. Get Max’s head out of her ass. If all she needs is sleep, Victoria can get her sleep. They’ve got similar problems. Maybe they’ve got similar solutions. And they can pretend last week didn’t happen. She can go back to routine. Max is a better punching bag than Kate, anyway.

Victoria marches inside, then up. Max doesn’t move when she slams open the rooftop door. God, is she totally fucking braindead? She can’t even react to loud noises anymore? She doesn’t even look as Victoria walks up to her little perch. Victoria doesn’t want to start this conversation, but Max is just dangling her legs over the side, blank.

“Hey.”

A sigh, Max’s shoulders sinking. “What do you want, Victoria?”

“You look like shit all the time. I’m sick of seeing it.”

“So, what, planning to push me off?”

“Wha—the fuck, what?” Victoria sputters, clutching her purse. “I—Jesus, Max, I might not like your hipster ass, but—”

“Then _what_.” Holy shit, she sounds _angry_. When the fuck is Max angry? Especially after...But there’s something else there. Like she’s just tired of the bullshit. Victoria recognizes the tone, because she uses it very tactically with Taylor and Courtney.

“Look, believe it or not, I came up here to help.” Victoria thinks about sitting down beside her, getting on her level, but no. They’re not friends. They’re not even in the same league. This is business. This is for Victoria, not Max.

“What makes you think I need your help?”

“I fucking said why. You’re not sleeping. I can help.” Jesus, this is harder than she thought it would be. Max isn’t budging. She’s not accommodating, not trying to win favors, for once. It hardly feels like the girl she’d hated since she got here. She fishes in her purse for the bottle, pops it open, and takes out a single tablet. “Here.” She holds out her palm with the little blue pill sitting in the middle of it. Max barely glances at it.

“I don’t need your drugs, Victoria.”

“This isn’t something I’m taking for fun, asshole. It’s just Ambien. I—” Victoria can’t explain why she didn’t just get a prescription. Because her parents would find out if she went through their insurance. Because they’d make her actually go and get therapy or talk to them or something. She can’t think of anything she wants to do less. So she just says, “I have a prescription. Literally all it’s for is sleeping.”

Max actually looks at her, and it’s chilling. Her eyes are hard, intense, and yet seem to be looking right through her.

“Look, just try it, okay? You want more, I got more, but I’m tired of seeing you walk around all fuckin’ depressed,” Victoria spits. “Lighten up, Jesus.”

“After your ‘best friend’ killed mine, I’m supposed to lighten up?” Max asks.

“You wanna forget about that as much as I do. Take the fucking pill.”

Max’s gaze wavers. Her hand shakes as it reaches up, the tips of her fingers leaving tingles on Victoria’s palm. It feels strangely intimate. She knows Max shouldn’t believe her, that this should be some kind of trick, but maybe Max knows that she’s not going to pull that shit. Not after Kate. Max seems to know her a little better than she’d like. It’s in her eyes.

“Take it, don’t, I don’t care anymore,” Victoria says as soon as Max’s hand leaves hers. “Talk to me next time you’re not so fucking aggro, let me know if you want more. Might charge you.”

“Generous as always, Victoria.”

“Fuck you.”

“And charming.”

Victoria snarls and pivots away. What right does Max have to talk to her that way? She’s just trying to help. Just trying to make things fucking normal around here again. She was supposed to be sad. She was supposed to give in and accept her stupid little offer, the way Taylor and Courtney take the scraps of praise she feeds them. She’s not supposed to fight back. That’s not who she _is_. That’s the not the _game_.

Victoria thinks of how to bring things back. To when mocking Max made her feel invincible, because it worked, it kept her out of the contest, didn’t it? At least until Jefferson got booked. At least until she was actually in San Francisco and didn’t deserve to be there. How can she turn Max back into her old self? How can she preserve the one thing in this school that had made her feel in control besides Nathan?

She takes one of the pills herself, once she’s back in her room. Don’t take it with alcohol, that’s what Frank said. He seemed serious, too. So she’ll obey. For now. Until things get back to normal. Until dead punk girls and psycho photographers and stupid videos aren’t always in the front of her head. Sleeping isn’t that fucking hard.

The sensation of drowsiness is sudden, though. Unexpected. Almost unfamiliar. She knows what being _tired_ is like, it’s seeped into her bones at this point, but the fogginess of her mind is a welcome relief. She’s so used to the itching sharpness of her inferiority overriding any desire to sleep. She falls into her bed with her clothes on. Before the darkness takes her, she wonders if Max is relieved, too.


	2. God Damn, I Love You

Max is back.

Well, a little bit. She’s not great, but Victoria watches her all day, and her eyes move again. She talks to Kate for most of illustration, partners with Warren in science. Her limbs don’t just hang at her sides anymore. Once, Victoria swears she sees her take a picture, just as classes are letting out for the day. Good. Something to compete with. To crush. New photography teacher tomorrow. Things will get back to normal.

Only, Victoria hasn’t really had anything to taunt her about. To throw in her face, make her do that shy looking-away things she does when she’s upset or irritated. What the hell is she gonna say to bring it back? It feels stupid to think of just, like, blocking her seat or her way into the dorms or something. Small. Petty. And maybe it hurts to think of helping her just to tear her down again, even though that was the point. Or it was supposed to be.

Courtney and Taylor nag her about the Halloween party for the Vortex Club on the way to the dorms. They still want to hold it at Blackwell, and they’re sure that Victoria can convince the principal even though the Club is kind of in limbo after Nathan’s involvement with Jefferson’s shit, and they’re talking and talking and _talking_ , and Victoria just snaps, “I do not fucking care.”

“What?” Taylor says as they enter the building.

“Jesus Christ, can’t you two handle this kind of simple shit without me? Figure it out.” She starts heading for her room at the end of the hall.

“Uh, Victoria, are you okay?” Courtney asks, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah, of course, but you guys don’t think that _maybe_ I don’t have that much pull here anymore?” Victoria says. “I’m pretty much the person who’s closest to the whole Jefferson-Prescott thing. Nobody’s gonna want to do what I say when they know that. So fucking find a place and set it up, and I’ll just _go_.”

“Victoria, you can talk to us whenever you—” Taylor starts up, but Victoria throws up a hand.

“I am _fine_ , Jesus, I’m just tired of always having to put in all the work for this stupid club. I do have actual shit to do, you know, I do go to class here.”

“I can help you with your homework,” Courtney says.

“Yeah, or I could just do it and not do a shitty job, and you can try and actually do something useful for a change.” Victoria unlocks her door and swings it open. “Text me when you’ve actually got something.” Before they can object, she slams the door in their faces.

She finds her fingers shaking when she sits down at her desk, her blood running hot with anger. She doesn’t _get_ it. Why does she feel these tremors in her chest? Is it the Ambien? Does it do that? Why doesn’t she ever look this shit up?

She types “ambien side effects” into Google and gets nothing about aggression or irritability, just depression, which, whatever. Alcohol’s definitely out. She considers whether or not to skip the Halloween thing, since what’s the fucking point if you’re not drinking, but maybe she only needed it once, and she’s back on the schedule now.

She decides not to think about it for now, do what she said she was gonna do. Homework. Something that can be done and finished and over with when she makes it so, easy markers of finality, no lingering loose ends.

She’s going slow at it, she knows. Her mind is buzzing, filled with angry little wasps bouncing against the inside of her skull, ideas of inferiority, cruelty, guilt. She refuses to admit they exist. They don’t help. They can fuck off.

A knock at her door startles her. She’s been reading the same page over and over anyway, so she dumps the book on its open page on her laptop and gets up. Probably Taylor or Courtney coming to confirm something because they’re clingy and they can’t accept the idea that Victoria doesn’t give a shit right now. She opens the door, ready to give her best death glare, and finds Max.

The door behind her, to her own room, is open as well, and she’s kind of caught in this long orange sunbeam that stretches between their windows across the hall. It looks like one of Max’s photos, especially since her face is in it. She’s still raggedy around the edges, but like, a sleepless hipster chic kind of look, not the walking dead kind of look. And she’s smiling, which is double weird. Victoria grits her teeth as she feels her pulse throb in her neck. She doesn’t like the way she’s looking at Max, so she tries to cut off the moment with a sharp, “What?”

“I just wanted to thank you,” Max says. “I—I know you didn’t have to, but—”

“Do you actually want something or do you wanna act like we’re best friends now?” Victoria’s mouth feels strangely dry.

“Victoria, you don’t have to keep cutting people down. I know you don’t.” And there’s that look. Max _knows_ something, all right, and Victoria’s a little irked that she has no idea what. Like Max is spying on her, somehow. “You’ve got plenty of tal—”

“Do you want more pills or not?” _Shut the fuck up, Max,_ she wants to scream, _Only Nathan ever knew me or understood me and look what he is, shut up, you’re not the kind of monster that gets me._ But she has to stay in control. And that especially means not being _nice_ to this pretentious little hipster girl. With her kind words for everyone and her total lack of social ambition. They don’t belong in the same species, let alone the same room.

“Victoria, I’m trying to make up for the way I acted last night,” Max says, a hint of irritation entering her voice. “I was...I was thinking about a lot of things, and I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh my God, get the message, bitch,” Victoria spits. “I’m not having a big sit-down with you and talking about our feelings. Y’know what? No more pills, I changed my mind. Go bother someone else with your pity party.”

As she closes the door, she hears a sigh from the other side, Max finally giving up on her peace project. Hopefully. Victoria puts her back to the door, a hand to her forehead, and tries not to think about why she feels sick for doing that. Once she hasn’t slept for three days, she’ll step in line. Then things can be normal. She can control Max, keep her under her thumb like Courtney and Taylor, if she can’t be a punching bag. So it’ll be pills, not praise and status, as the carrot. That’s fine. That’ll work.

But Max looked so beautiful just there, without any effort on her part. Not even makeup, no stylish clothes, just, like, Goodwill shit. Everything comes so easy to her. It’s fascinating to watch sometimes, and it makes Victoria’s heart clench with jealousy. And something else. Something she’s ignoring. That she’s been ignoring for a while.

God, she wants a drink. But she has to try to get through the night. That means no passing out, no pills, try to sleep like a human being.

She takes the pill at two A.M. anyway and sleeps like the dead.

* * *

She’s been watching Max deteriorate.

There’s no need for direct confrontation this way. She can just see her eyes get redder, the way she doesn’t talk in class, the total lack of focus on the teacher. Suffering because Victoria won’t give her what she needs.

Three days turns out to be right on the money.

Victoria’s trying again. To sleep without help, because god _damn_ does she want to drink. So she’s mostly spinning in her chair and thinking about Max and why Max sets her nerves on fire the way she does. Why seeing her fall apart isn’t satisfying the way it had been with Kate, until the news broke. Maybe because she knows it’s not some personal weakness on Max’s part, she doesn’t deserve it. Kate didn’t either. Maybe no one does, maybe this is a fucked-up way to spend her time and energy, maybe Nathan ruined it forever with his creepy bullshit. And then there’s the other thing.

The memory crawls back into her mind like a cicada emerging from hibernation. Twelve years old. Wandering the gallery during a showing. Her parents were a little drunk on wine, stopped watching her. Found a place in the back with a sensitivity warning. Walked right on through. Bound, nude women in monochrome, surrounding her, fascinating her, drawing her right up to the photographs, touching them. Something building inside her that frightened her and led her to run out of the display when she couldn’t stand it anymore, when it overpowered her. Shaking as she headed back to the actual showing. Deciding she’d never tell anyone.

And she never did. She’d have to move in different circles. Change her whole appearance, her demeanor, to make herself fit in with people ‘like her’. She wouldn’t cut it with the big, rich groups, not if they knew. It wouldn’t fit their image. Victoria has to fit their image. So she hooks up, occasionally, trying to find what’s supposed to be fun about it. But it’s just sweaty, and disgusting, just an effective way to fuck with the social ladder. Nothing excites her less.

Nathan and Jefferson like their women bound and colorless, too.

She’s about to reach for the Ambien, block out this awful burning in her eyes and her gut, blank out this desire, when Max knocks at the door. She knows it’s her before she even stands up.

Something in Victoria breaks when she sees her standing there in the cold light. She hasn’t seen her up close yet, and she’s so tired. The lines on her face are horrid, the bags under her eyes dark and heavy. Her gaze is turned to the floor, so different from that first night on the roof when she’d been so strong. Now she’s under control. Now she can’t do that shit she does to Victoria.

Right?

“Here for your fix?” Victoria asks, tightening her posture, putting a hand on her hip. Max is in her little shorts and t-shirt. Victoria keeps her eyes level, staring at that exhausted face, the damage she did.

“Victoria, I’m worried about you.”

What the _fuck_.

She cannot be this nice. She should just be here and begging to get help. Be pathetic, be the useless nobody that she is. Be under control.

“I haven’t seen you around your friends at all, you’re just sitting in here all the time, and you’re doing this...” Max waves her hand. “You’re shutting me out, for some reason.”

“Fuck you.” Victoria’s voice shakes and she hates it.

“Why do you do this?” Max asks, stepping forward. “Why are you—we’re both messed up because of what happened that week. So why are you still trying to bully me with this, this drug?”

“Because it’s working,” Victoria sneers, backing up. “You are here for your fix, I knew it.”

“I can’t sleep for a lot of reasons. One of them is you.” Max reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder. “I know how much this sucks, Victoria. At least a little bit.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing.” Victoria jumps back from her touch.

“Victoria, I know you’re insecure, like you always feel like you’re overcompensating but you don’t know why—”

“What the fuck,” Victoria whispers, _how does she know this, it’s in my words, what the hell—_

“And I know, I know we could be friends, or at least, we don’t have to be enemies, and—”

Victoria brushes past her and shuts the door, her breath pumping through her lungs, heat in her core, a sick drop of fear in her stomach. Max’s mouth clamps shut.

“You think you know so fucking much,” Victoria hisses, walking up to Max and towering over her. She knows how to surprise this apparent fucking clairvoyant. She grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her.

That fucking works.

Max is frozen, her lips unmoving except by Victoria’s force. Victoria closes her eyes, because holy hell, this feels so much better than anything else she’s done. Men’s lips aren’t like this. They just aren’t. And then Max starts shaking instead, lifting her arms up as though to take Victoria in them, and Victoria pushes her away. She isn’t supposed to _like_ it.

“Victoria...” Max’s voice is a whisper.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up and take your fucking pills and leave me the hell alone.” Victoria dives past her back to her desk and dumps out maybe half of the pills, curls them up in her fist, and jabs them at Max.

“Victoria, don’t, please, I want to help—”

Victoria grabs her hand and puts the pills into it, then forcefully closes Max’s fingers around them for her. She opens the door and shoves Max through it with a hand on her neck.

She shuts the door without hearing another word. She doesn’t take it with water. She nearly chokes as the little blue pill worms its way down her throat on the way to blot out her mind.


	3. The Lingering Odor Of The Corpse

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about anything.

Victoria moves through the rest of the week without friction. She makes sure things run smoothly around her, and Courtney and Taylor prove that they don’t need her to manage shit. The party’s not gonna happen in a Blackwell building, but they managed to find some community center a little ways away that’ll go for it, as long as the Chases pay. And they will. Nothing’s more important than their daughter’s social success.

Max avoids her eyes. Victoria avoids looking at her. When she realizes she’s doing it.

Victoria gives up the Ambien starting Monday, because she _needs_ to drink on Thursday if she’s going to be there, and the sleepless nights return. It’s better this way, anyway. Who the hell needs sleep? Just gets in the way. She needs to work on new photography projects for class, and she’s got a camera that can take kickass night shots anyway.

She doesn’t know why she drives out to the junkyard. Or pretends not to know.

They dug her up here, tape-barricaded the whole place for almost a week. But now it’s just the way it was, aside from the upturned earth and the lingering scraps of yellow caution tape that stick out of the mud. The land here is uneven, sticking to the bottom of Victoria’s tripod as she sets up her shot of the shallow grave. There’s barely any moonlight, and the floodlamps are gone, but there’s no wind, and she sets the exposure time carefully. She checks the card. It’s just an impression of American Rust, just the faintest outlines of twisted metal, litter, and opened, empty dirt.

Did Nathan dig this with his bare hands? How did he do it, burying this girl he drugged to death? Victoria shakes as she walks past her planted tripod, crouching down next to the hole, running her fingers along the edges. How did it feel? Was he crying, was he in one of his rages, blaming Rachel for not being strong enough to handle it, or not just doing what he asked? Or was he numb? Unfeeling. Doing what he had to do. To escape the consequences of his actions.

She stands up and tries to shake the dirt off of her fingers. One picture’s not worth this drive. She spots a tiny little brick building at the end of the junkyard, covered in extra junk, but something about it looks deliberate. Decorative. There’s a little pinwheel standing up beside the door, made out of a fishing rod and a bicycle tire, scraps of paper stuck inside of it. Someone _made_ that.

She hoists up her tripod and heads inside, and it’s pitch-black in there, no matter how long she sets the exposure time. She sets the tripod down, digs into her purse, pulls out her phone, then turns on the flashlight. Someone definitely made this their home. Pizza boxes everywhere, writing on the walls, posters, a big yellow elephant rug hanging on the wall. There’s an old cable-spool sitting between two make-shift benches, upturned to serve as a table. Ashtray, lighter, broken glass, crushed cans. Barely any room for Victoria to set her phone down and point the flashlight to the ceiling.

The harsh white light slips through the holes in the roof, but it reflects just enough to make the place visible. Gives it an eerie, diffuse glow. Now she can read the writing on the walls.

_FUCK YOU. YES YOU!_

_LALALAND THIS WAY — > _

_CHLOE WAS HERE_

_Rachel was here._

Dead punk girls.

Did he choose the junkyard deliberately? Was it a taunt? Did he kill Chloe because he killed Rachel?

Victoria had _hated_ Rachel. Hated the way she talked to everyone, all promises and smiles and pretty-girl popularity and yet still able to move between the Vortex Club and the losers without missing a step. Hated the thing she had with Jefferson. Chloe was just a name in a newspaper and blue hair occasionally glimpsed at Rachel’s side, before she entered into Victoria’s domain and Chloe faded away into the night.

She’d been glad when she disappeared. She thought the same as everyone else, that she’d run off with one of the fuckups she hung out with. Then she ruled Blackwell with no competition.

Did Nathan do it for _her_?

She rebels against the thought immediately. Of course he didn’t, he’s a sick fuck who got off on kidnapping women, he’s always been selfish and entitled and fucked-up, it’s not Victoria’s fault. But still. Is it something she’d _wanted_ , secretly? She and Nathan were close, too close, too much alike. Would she have done the same, if Jefferson had looked to her instead of Nathan? Or would she just be a victim?

God dammit. She’s here to take pictures.

It’s easier to breathe when all she’s thinking about is framing, how to make the light from her phone into a natural part of this portrait. LALALAND and the darkness it points to look strangely inviting in her shot. So do the little benches, the spool. This place must have been a haven. And now it’s dead. It’ll all decay on its own, disappear. Nobody knows it’s here now, nobody but Victoria. She’s tapped into a secret life. She takes more shots than she’ll actually use or turn in. She almost wants to preserve it herself, keep some kind of 360-degree image of it in digital. Fish skeletons on the wall, _L.A. BITCH!,_ a dartboard with scores underneath it (Chloe sucked), a bong in the ripped-out bus seat, a CD shining on the floor.

Victoria reaches down to touch it, even though when she does, she knows she’s violating this memory. She flips it over. _Rachel Songs_.

They’d been in love, hadn’t they? And Nathan had torn them apart.

Victoria doesn’t deserve to be here. But she takes one more photo, with the CD on the label side, holding her phone above it and tilting her camera down in the tripod. The resulting shot is blurry. Crap. But there’s life in it.

She shuts off the flashlight and yanks her equipment up. Marches back to the car. She wants to just throw it all in there, but it’s expensive shit, so she carefully uncouples the camera and tripod, folds them all up in their separate cases, lays them in the trunk. She breathes slowly as she climbs into the driver’s seat. Coming here was a mistake.

 

* * *

 

When she pulls into the Blackwell lot, her headlights shine on Max. In her pajamas. Walking along the wall beside the stairs, her footsteps unsure. Something in Victoria’s mind clicks. _Some people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating, walking, making phone calls, or having sex and later having no memory of the activity._

Shit.

_I drugged her._

Victoria speeds into a parking space and slams on the brakes. Stupid fuckface, why did you think you were _helping_ , ever? When do you help people? That’s not your job. She yanks out her keys, slams open her door, and runs up the stairs until she can jump onto the wall that Max is balancing on.

“Hey!” she shouts, taking her by the shoulders and spinning so they’re face-to-face. Max’s face is blank. Her eyes are open, but they aren’t moving. Victoria shakes her. “Wake up!”

Nothing.

Can she even get down on her own, or will she fall? _So, what, planning to push me off?_ What the hell is Victoria supposed to do? Max silently starts to turn away, so Victoria grabs her by the wrist and tugs. She has to try. Max can’t just be wandering around like this. Something could happen to her, someone could...

Max proves compliant, her feet stepping to follow Victoria by instinct as she leads them onto the grass, then back towards the dorms. Her skin feels so cold. She must’ve been out here for at least an hour. Anyone could’ve come by and taken her and dragged her somewhere dark and...

Take her back to her room and stop fucking thinking.

It’s unnerving, how quiet she is. How easy it is to move her around, make her follow. She hopes to God no one’s up to see them when she opens the door to the dorms and shoves Max inside. She leads her down the hall by her arm, ready to release her as soon as she sees anyone open their door, hears a single footstep. She cannot be seen doing this. Too many questions.

But she’s knows she’s fucked when she finds Max’s door locked. She still pats Max down, trying to ignore how it feels to touch her, knowing she’s got no pockets. _How the fuck does she remember to close her door but not take her keys?_ she groans internally. What the fuck does she do now?  
Only one option. And it’s a bad one.

She fumbles with her keys, but eventually manages to unlock her own door and shove Max inside. And now, the door is closed, and she has a drugged girl in her room, alone. She’s strangely beautiful, peaceful. The side effect list keeps rattling off in her head.

 _Or having sex or having sex or_ **_having sex_ **

That means they want to do it, right? Like, it doesn’t say “be the victim of.” Victoria runs a hand down Max’s arm, breathing heavy. She won’t remember. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. It wouldn’t matter. No consequences.

_That’s what you’re saying to justify yourself, you fucking pervert._

She turns away, covers her mouth, like she’s gonna throw up at herself. That’s something Nathan would do. Or he’d take pictures. Or both. God, what did he do to Kate? To Rachel? How can Victoria sit here and think about doing it to Max? Why does she _want_ to? Or does she want to do it right but she can’t, she could never, it’d give her away, tear down her down from her high status, turn her into an outcast. She could do this, and no one would ever believe Max, just like no one believed Kate. Or maybe they would all know. Because Victoria was Nathan’s best friend, because Victoria’s just as fucked up as he is or she wouldn’t even be thinking about this, wouldn’t want to hurt Max.

But what if she could do it right? What if she could be like Max? The thoughts from San Francisco come back to her head. Fuck this highbrow art shit and live like nobody cares. God, that sounds good, a relief. Maybe she could. Maybe she can test the waters a little bit. If Max would ever want her, on any level, it should show now, right?

This won’t hurt her.

Victoria turns around and finds Max wandering towards the door again, and gently takes her hand. Max stops, and Victoria steps closer. She cups Max’s chin with her other hand. God, her skin is so soft. So are her lips, and Victoria, for a moment, imagines what it could be like. To do this whenever she wants. Every day. To be herself and never care about what others think, the way Max does.

But Max’s lips don’t move, she doesn’t come alive and start kissing back. She’s just not cognizant enough to push Victoria away, and that’s not enough. She has to _want_ Victoria for this to work. Victoria shoves her back, onto the couch, rougher than she should but it’s easier to channel everything into anger than to think about what this knowledge feels like.

And why would she even want to be like Max, anyway? Fuck that. She’s not getting anywhere, she didn’t go to San Francisco, she’s not getting offers every day. Victoria will thrive, and Max will fade into obscurity with a hundred other talented hipsters. She bets that Max hasn’t even sent off her work to be published anywhere, if she’s too scared to enter a _school contest_.

She looks at Max with disgust, but she doesn’t let her out of her sight, making sure that she stays on the couch until her eyes close on their own and she slumps down. Victoria’s jealous of that, too, thinks about just going for it and grabbing a pill of her own, join Max in just giving in. But she can’t. She’s got an image to uphold, and it’s not ‘pill-popping insomniac,’ and she sure as hell doesn’t want to get caught sleepwalking around campus.

So it’s time to try another medication.

The bottle’s right where she left it, stashed in her closet. Fireball. She doesn’t tell anyone she has this shit, not a good look, too lowbrow, but it’s easy to drink when you’re alone and miserable and you want to ignore just how much you’re drinking. It’s sweet, it stings, but not in the normal way, more like you’re just overloading on cinnamon gum. She takes a swig, then heads back out to her car.

Once she’s got her equipment back in her room, Victoria checks Max. She’s fine. Breathing, sleeping, even if she is upright and uncovered. Sighing at herself, Victoria gently tips her over on her side, laying her head against the pillows at one end of the couch. She searches in her closet for a minute, and decides that a towel is kind of like a blanket and throws one of her nicer ones over Max. She looks better now. Less like a victim waiting to happen.

She takes swigs of her candy whiskey as she scrolls through the camera’s memory card. The shots are _good_ , though. Somehow. Even the last one. The motion blur makes it feel alive, real, like a freeze-frame from some home movie someone would’ve made in that little clubhouse. _Rachel Songs_. She wonders what Rachel songs sound like. Wonders what Victoria songs would sound like. If anyone cared enough to make a mixtape for her.

Drink more, asshole. Stop thinking.

Eventually she knows another drink will make her puke, she can feel the burning and swirling in her gut, so she sets down the bottle and picks at the buttons on her blouse. As soon as she’s managed to get herself into pajamas, she lies down on her bed, back against the pillows, watching Max even as she struggles to get the covers over herself. She stares until she blacks out.

 

* * *

 

The lawnmower outside her window screams into Victoria’s ears, sends a pounding through her skull. At first, she just clenches up into the fetal position and clamps her pillow around her head, but then memories of what she did last night start to surface. She shoots up in bed, looking around for Max, and finds her right where she left her, though she’s stirring now, groaning on the couch. Victoria watches in a cold sweat, using her arms to prop herself up, unable to think of how to resolve this. What she should say. What she can do to make it like this never happened.

Max’s eyes open, and she blinkingly looks around Victoria’s room. Then her gaze settles on Victoria, her eyes squinting against the light from the window.

“Victoria?” Max rubs her eyes. “Why am I...”

“You need to fucking watch your dosage or something, Max.” Victoria can make this work. Make it seem like no big deal. “I found you wandering around campus like that, sleepwalking or something. Your door was locked.”

Max looks alarmed. “You mean I was—”

“Yeah, it does that if you don’t handle your shit. Don’t know why I trusted you with it, like you couldn’t find a way to fuck up going to sleep.”

“And you brought me back here?” Max sits up on the couch. The look she gives Victoria is weird. Unwelcome.

“No, I just left you out there and then you broke in, and I was like, oh, whatever, she can stay. That’s how I operate, you know, I’m _very_ relaxed.” Victoria rolls her eyes and swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to act like—”

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”

There’s quiet, for a moment, while the mower outside shuts off and Victoria gets up. She has to try very hard to walk straight, to dump the bottle back in the closet.

“Thanks, Victoria,” Max says quietly.

“If someone fucked with you, the cops would’ve figured out who gave you the shit,” Victoria claims, waving her hand.

“Is that really why you did it?”

“I fucking said so, didn’t I?” Victoria’s nostrils flare. Fucking nosy-ass Max. Always thinks she knows. Especially when she actually does.

“Victoria—”

Victoria marches past her and flings open her door, takes a quick glance down the hallway. Empty. She looks at Max and jabs her thumb out the door. “Get out.”

“Vict—”

Victoria grabs her by her collar and yanks her to her feet, and she wants to kiss her again somehow, but she doesn’t, not this time, not ever again, she doesn’t want it, it’s a stupid idea anyway, stop fucking thinking about it. “Get the fuck out,” she hisses, and throws her out of the room. “And don’t tell _anyone_.”

“I won’t,” Max whispers as the door shuts in her face. And Victoria wants to hit her.

Not, “I won’t, because you’ll destroy me,” but, “I won’t, because it would destroy you.” That’s what she was saying. Because she’s not fucking scared of Victoria, no matter what she does. Like something’s shifted in her and she’s not the shy, scared little girl she was at the start of the year. Like Victoria’s facade isn’t working anymore. The thought turns to blind panic in Victoria’s mind. What if _everyone_ can see through her, like Max does? What if this all falls apart?

She goes back to the closet and takes a little hair of the dog to soothe her nerves. She’s fine. Her reputation is intact, if not more terrifying after almost a week of ordering around the rest of the Club to do her work for her. She’s still feared. That’s all she needs. That’s all she’s supposed to need.

So what else does she want? What else is fraying away the edges of her mind, her confidence? Why isn’t fear and status enough? What is she missing?

Long nights with Nathan, commiserating about miserable, angry, uptight, shitty parents. Losing themselves in coke and acid and molly, free spirits of destruction roaming the neon-lit halls of Vortex Club parties, bass pounding in her chest. Powerful and liberated and in total control of the chaos they made. And then the mornings together, picking up the pieces, swearing that they had to get back in control. Someone to lean on. Someone she could talk to without a persona, without having to pepper her conversation with insults and obscenities to keep the social order straight. An equal.

An equal. Equally vicious. Equally predatory and cruel. Equally crazy for power, attention, status.

There is no equal to Victoria left at this school. Maybe there shouldn’t be.

She takes a deep breath. Well. Somebody has to be the queen bitch. Might as well be her. No more fucking around in her room. Classes start soon. She has an outfit to pick out, a face to put on. There’s no time to doubt herself. Max will keep her shitty little mouth closed. Maybe it doesn’t matter why.

Or maybe it does. Because there’s still that idea. Destructive, crazy, stupid. But, God. What if they did? What if they just fucking hooked up one night in front of everyone and threw the entire school’s social network into chaos?

It won’t happen. Max doesn’t want her. Nobody really does. That's why she has to force it, to fake it. That's how it's always been.

There’s no time for ‘what if’s, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And now the bloodstains are all that remain to remind us_   
>  _That once there was a force that did bind us_   
>  _And if it wasn't for the lingering odor of the corpse_   
>  _We'd drift apart_
> 
> The description says "bring out the worst **in each other.** "
> 
> Next two or three chapters from Max's perspective.


	4. My Decisions Don't Involve Me Anymore

Victoria is a project.

Maybe that’s a messed-up way to think about it, but it’s the only way. It’s what keeps her steady, even now, just walking to photography class. Thinking about her, wondering how to help her, trying to get her to open up, it’s something that can consume Max’s mind. Make up for the storm. Make up for Chloe. If she can actually help someone, just once, just _once_ , then she isn’t a total failure.

She takes a deep breath, shaking away that thought. No. This isn’t about Super-Max, Goddess of Blackwell Generosity. Not anymore. That was before the storm. That was her, twisting time to turn everything in her favor. Now, it can’t be about her. Victoria is _messed up_ , that’s the issue. And she needs to be better, or she’ll do something terrible to someone. Like she almost did to Kate. Like she really did to Kate, in another timeline, the one that Max screwed up. She can be better. Max remembers the night of the Vortex Club party, Victoria confessing that she’s just insecure, under so much pressure. That she admires Max. That has to still be true, even after...after this project got going.

She knows she should be paying more attention to what Kate is saying, beside her. She shouldn’t have her mind so full of Victoria Chase, the person who killed her. No. The person who helped kill her. Not better. The person who killed her when Max messed up. Accurate.

“Max? Max, are you even there?” Kate waves her hand in front of Max’s face. Kate’s got a laugh in her voice, which is still strange to hear. Ever since she started sleeping again, Max can pretend that she doesn’t hear Kate’s last words, so soft and tear-sodden, every time she speaks.

She smiles at Kate. “Sorry, think I zoned out for a second. What’s up?”

“I said, did you get the e-mail this morning? Ms. Varte said we’ve got a mysterious new project instead of what’s on the syllabus today,” Kate says as they walk up the steps to the front entrance of Blackwell.

“So we’re not having a lecture? Thank God.” Max can’t really focus on photography lectures anymore. They always start to sound like Jefferson, even if Varte’s nothing like him. But actually doing it is still kind of soothing.

“Do you think it’ll be group work? I’ve been dying to see what we could do together,” Kate says, giving Max a small smile. But Max isn’t looking at her anymore. As they turn the corner, she catches Victoria’s eyes, standing just outside the classroom. As they as they recognize each other, Victoria darts in, guilt on her face. It gives Max a little thrill, for some reason. The same feeling she got when they kissed. This knowledge about Victoria, it’s a secret, something she has to keep safe, but it’s also just invigorating to have it. And to know that it’s directed at her is strangely flattering.

She tries to turn her attention back to Kate. “Yeah, that’d be fun!” she agrees, and Kate’s smile grows wider. She’s doing so well in this timeline. It hurts to look at her.

“Well, cross your fingers.” As the two of them sit down and take their seats, Max’s eyes wander over to Victoria again. It’s easy to tell when she isn’t sleeping now. It’s in her fingers, the way they tense up when she’s not moving. Her appearance is immaculate, as always, but she can’t hide her body language under makeup. Victoria looks straight ahead, very pointedly, ignoring Taylor’s attempts to draw her into a conversation.

Ms. Varte walks in about five minutes late, as seems to be her custom, but she’s got a folder in her hands and she seems quite excited about its contents. “Good morning, everyone!” she chirps, putting the folder down on her desk as she sits down. “As I was looking over your submissions for our lighting assignment on Tuesday, I had an idea.”

She really is the total opposite of Jefferson, completely unconcerned with looking cool or connecting with the kids on ‘their level’ or anything else like that; she’s just this short little pixie of a woman, all smiles and short blonde hair and weird-colored lipstick (today it’s green) and a real love of photography that’s kind of infectious.  Max looked up her work after she was announced to come to Blackwell, and she’s _really_ good, and really experimental. Pinning down any theme she wanted to explore for more than a year at a time is difficult. Which is probably why she might as well shred the syllabus at this point, but at least it keeps things interesting.

“So,” Varte continues, “By some strange, cosmic coincidence, two of you chose the exact same, obscure, out-of-the-way place for your project, and they brought very different perspectives to it. I had to compare their shots, and it was just _wonderful_ they way they contrasted, how their two different eyes and times they chose came together to form a more complete picture of the subject.” And then Varte looks right at Max, and her blood runs cold. It only gets worse when she turns her to look straight at _Victoria_ as well.

Oh, shit.

“Max, Victoria, do you mind if I show the class what I found?”

They turn to each other, and Max knows that Victoria can see the panic because Max can definitely see the same in Victoria’s face. They know that saying “no” is a bad move, that they’re supposed to be trying to be professionals and that means showing off their work, but oh _no._

“N-no,” Max says first, and Victoria slumps back in her chair and says, “Yeah, fine.”

Varte either doesn’t notice or refuses to acknowledge their hesitation, beaming at the both of them. “Excellent!” she croons, taking the folder and passing it to Taylor at the front of the room. “This should give you all an idea of what I’m looking for. I’m going to pair you up, and I want you to bring your own personal vision to the same subject. Try to fill the gaps in each other’s work, see what you can really do with collaboration. This isn’t going to be a big project, we’re already running behind on the syllabus, but I want to see what you can come up with by next Thursday. Max, Victoria, I want to see what you two can do when you actually _try_ to work together.”

The expression on Victoria’s face says, “Come the fuck on,” but her mouth smiles sweetly and says, “That should be interesting, Ms. Varte.” She stands up and scoots her chair over to Max’s desk.

“Now, Kate, I think you and Daniel could get a really interesting contrast...” Kate gives Max a wide-eyed stare and mouths, “I’m sorry” under her breath.

But maybe this won’t be so bad. Victoria is good, and it’s not like she can’t get her own work done, it’s part of her whole thing. And then Max suddenly consciously connects the “Max and Victoria” part of Varte’s speech and the “same place” part.

“You went to the _junkyard_?” Max whispers.

“Uh, yeah,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “I can suffer for my art occasionally.”

“But why? What did you—”

Alyssa passes the folder to their desk and Max opens it immediately. Varte made a little collage of their shots, side-by-side, but the first one is the most telling. It answers the question. They’d both taken shots of Rachel’s grave, though it’s hard to see anything more than an impression in Victoria’s cold night shot. Max had gone near sunset, making Warren drive her, and she’d basically broken down as soon as she saw that hole that she’d dug up with her bare hands so long ago. Warren’s still a good friend. Even though he’s given up on chasing Max and seems happily (if slightly nervously) together with Brooke now, he held her when she fell to her knees in the Chloe and Rachel hideaway. Because she saw the graffiti. Because she remembered writing “Max was here,” and of course it wasn’t there, because she never went there with Chloe to shoot bottles because Chloe is dead and gone and never coming back and it’s because of her and her choices and her cowardice.

Their shots are strikingly similar despite the disparate lighting. The two pictures of the _LALALAND THIS WAY — > _graffiti have practically the same angle, though Max’s is less steady because she was still crying a little bit and holding her camera in her hands, not perched on a tripod. Lalaland looks bright and lovely in Max’s shot. A way to holding hands on a train track. Victoria’s is pitch black, mysterious, enticing in a strange sense. Victoria must have gone alone. How did she handle the grave? How did Nathan’s actions tie into her decision to wander American Rust?

Max’s shot of _CHLOE WAS HERE/Rachel was here_ starts blurring. Jumping in the frame. No, no, no, stop looking at it, you can never _do_ that again, look how that turned out last time—

“Uh, hello, do you have any ideas for how to get through this shitty project, or are you just gonna stare at the shit we already made all day?” Victoria asks, snapping Max back to the present.

She blinks away spots from her eyes and passes the folder off to Daniel and Kate. “Sorry,” she says quietly as Victoria glares daggers at her.

“So, nothing, then.”

“I—”

“Well, you are the selfie ho of Blackwell,” Victoria begins, and Max hears Taylor snicker. “So if you’re too lazy to take any actual shots, we could just use your old ones and I’ll get some of you.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be a taunt, but that actually sounds kind of interesting. How would Victoria frame her? How would it look, to be captured by someone so different from her, especially if she did it without Max’s knowledge, without the preparation that goes into a selfie? But she can’t just flat-out agree. Victoria needs some pushback. She needs to actually learn to work with people.

“Deal, _if_ ,” Max begins, “I get to take pictures of you. And you have to take a couple of selfies.”

Victoria looks kind of shocked for a moment. Open. Vulnerable. But then her mask comes back, and she scoffs. “Fine, whatever. Should we get started now, or what?”

“We...we should...” Max wracks her brain for ideas, and one comes up, “We should do it in different environments. Like, we do our selfies somewhere, and our pictures of each other somewhere else, maybe do like a private/public contrast.”

“Weird to hear something smart out of you.” Max’s cheeks flush. Getting Victoria to compliment anyone is hard, and it’s always barbed, but it’s still kind of nice. But then she sees a wicked grin forming on Victoria’s face. “Hey, here’s an idea. Selfies in our own rooms, on our own time. But _tonight_ , we shoot each other at the Halloween party.”

Max clenches her fingers. Maybe this will actually be the worst project after all. God, that’s exactly what she needs, a _Vortex Club party_. But the biggest problem is, Victoria’s right. That would be a hell of a setting to contrast. “I don’t have a costume,” is her first attempt to throw it off regardless.

“So buy a slutty cat outfit for like ten bucks before you go. Or don’t, it’s not like having a costume is gonna make you fit in any more.”

“You’d really let me into a Vortex Club party?”

“Why not? It’ll be funny.” Victoria’s starting to look very pleased with herself, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk.

“What am I even gonna do when I get there?”

“Uh, fucking _party_ , genius. If you can’t hack it with me, I know Alyssa and some other loser friends of yours are going too. Hang around them, we’ll shoot each other when we see each other. I’ll drive you. Starts at ten.”

Max looks down at her hands as Varte stands up and claps. “All right, if everyone’s had enough time to decide on a project or at least gotten each other’s contact info, I really _should_ cover some of the reading we did for today...”

This is a bad idea. But maybe they can actually make something good. And maybe she can get to know Victoria a little better, if she’s in her element instead of trying to force her way in during private moments of vulnerability. Maybe this is a chance to help, even if it’s going to be hard.

If nothing else, Max hopes she can forget the last Vortex Club party before she has to face this one.


	5. Stumbling Around With Selfish Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated. Please be safe.

10:30 finds Max sitting in her room, clad in a hastily-acquired yellow rubber rainjacket and boots and a black-and-white striped shirt. Her face is pale, thanks to Alyssa’s magic, and her eyes are surrounded by dark circles with small circles left blank, in the pattern of oversized buttons. Her hair’s also _blue_ , with a butterfly pin in it, which looks pretty weird when she takes a selfie of her before the laptop screen. Alyssa said that it’ll wash out in one go if you try hard or a bunch of goes if you don’t. Overall, not bad for only having about three hours to convince Warren to drive to the thrift store and sit under Alyssa’s expertise.

Alyssa was glad that Max was going, but also asked a bunch of times, “You’re going with Victoria? _Really?_ ” Max explained about the project, but Alyssa still seemed pretty unconvinced. “I just need to talk to her before we start, I’m not hanging out with her all night,” she had to promise eventually, and Alyssa grudgingly accepted.

So now here she is. Waiting to be taken to a community center to try to have fun. In the dark, in the bass. To try not to think of Victoria dedicating her award to Kate. To try not to remember what happened after. What didn’t happen.

A forceful knock forces her out of her memories, and she’s grateful. When she opens the door, she finds Victoria. It takes her a second to process the black bobbed wig, the bright red lipstick, the white dress shirt and black slacks. She looks _really_ good. “Pulp Fiction!” she blurts out.

“Got it in one. What’s that, Coraline?” Victoria asks, waving up and down in Max’s general direction.

“Yeah, kind of a rush job, but—"

“Book was better.”

“Well,  _duh_ , it’s Neil Gaiman,” Max says automatically.

“The movie was too long, and—”

“And they added that other kid—”

“Oh, yeah, that little asshole. Cat was awesome, though.”

“And the stop-motion work was _gorgeous_ , don’t get me wrong—”

“Oh, yeah, tons of work went into it, but it just wasn’t the same.”

The both of them pause, realizing that they’re having an entirely normal and possibly even pleasant conversation. Victoria clears her throat. “Anyway. Get your camera and let’s roll.”

“Right, yeah.” Max grabs her bag from beside her chair and slings it over her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Victoria digs a pack of cigarettes out of her purse as they walk, lighting up as soon as they step out into the cold. It completes the costume. “S-so why Mia?” Max asks.

“What, gonna psychoanalyze me on that, too? She’s hot,” Victoria says. “Guys like Pulp Fiction. Plus, you’re gonna be sweating your ass off in half an hour with that getup.”

Max shrugs. “I don’t know. I always liked Coraline. Wandering into dark places, solving mysteries, beating bad guys.”

“Well, she was nosy, like you, so guess it’s pretty fitting.”

Max stiffens, because Victoria’s right, but she tries to press on as they head into the parking lot. “So what’s the plan, exactly?”

“Just do your own thing, hang out with the nerds or whatever,” Victoria says dismissively. “The place has a bowling alley that we rented out, too, that’s where all the people who aren’t dancing are gonna be. Seems like your speed. Just make sure to wander around a bit, catch me when I’m having fun, and I’ll do the same. This has to be genuine, so no posing.”

As they climb into Victoria’s car, Max is very careful not to mark up the white leather seats or touch literally anything. Victoria seems to have no such reservations, bringing the lit cigarette into the car with her and filling the space with smoke until Max cracks a window.

“How late is it gonna go?”

Victoria shrugs. “DJ’s booked till two. Probably hang around till I’m sober enough to drive, then we’ll get outta there.”

“I could drive us.”

“Like hell I’m letting you touch my car.” Victoria takes a long drag as they leave Blackwell. “Plus, you should drink at least a little bit, so you’re not thinking about when I’m gonna show up and snap you.”

“And then go to class tomorrow? After that?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s called coffee, Max.” Victoria rolls her eyes and blows smoke in her face. “Fucking live a little, Jesus. Think you’re doing yourself any favors sitting in your room and ‘worrying about me’ all day?”

Max waves the smoke away, coughing. “Nice, Victoria, real nice.”

“Seriously, if I don’t see a drink in your hand, I’m not taking the shot. Try not to be a total buzzkill for five seconds, see how it treats you.”

“You’re holding our project hostage so I’ll drink?”

“Got it again, Max, you’re on fire tonight.” Victoria rolls down her own window and throws out her cigarette. “I’m not asking you to get wasted, but I’m not having you come and prude up the whole party. Let go for a minute and you might actually like it.”

Max fiddles with the hem of her raincoat as Victoria hooks up her phone to the sound system at a red light. Maybe Victoria’s right. Maybe it’ll take the edge off, to have something running through her system. It’s worth a try, and hell, she’s eighteen, right? Not too far off.

“Oh, yeah, but no Ambien tonight. That and drinking will fucking kill you,” Victoria warns suddenly, as the light turns green. “Not joking about that. Just don’t.”

Max nods. “Good idea.”

“If you take that shit and die, I’m on the hook. Don’t.”

“Yeah, Victoria, I’m not _planning_ to, God.”

“Good.”

Her face looks tense. Even though she’s gotten everything she’s wanted today, Victoria’s still wound-up tight. Maybe she needs this too, to let go. Maybe if Max joins her, they can finally really talk. The project can continue.

They pull into a frankly enormous parking lot, packed with familiar cars from Blackwell. The community center’s a lot bigger than the Blackwell pool, and not all of it is lit up, but as Max gets out of the car she can already hear the bass pumping. As they walk into the deserted entrance hall, Victoria points up the stairs. “We’ve got Auditorium Two up there for the dancefloor, that’s where I’m gonna be. Alley’s down that way,” and she points to the side of the stairs down a long hall, “That’s where we’ve got the snacks and the punch and shit. Club’s on hook for the games they’re running, so go nuts, it’s only like ten bucks and it’ll give you something to do. Plus I made sure nobody’s renting shoes. Blue punch is alcoholic, red punch isn’t. Cops aren’t gonna give a shit so long as no one gets hurt tonight, so watch the damn bowling balls.”

Max just nods. “All right, go get settled in. The night’s barely started. I’ll sneak down when the music gets shitty,” and with that, Victoria is up the stairs and gone.

Max takes a deep breath and starts down the hall. It’s eerily quiet, nothing but the muffled bass and the squeak of her boots on the linoleum. The only lights are fluorescents showing the way, all other sections of the center shut down, locked doors and dark rooms.

But once the entrance to the alley is in sight, things get a little louder. The music from above is being fed into the speakers in there, too, but it’s not too overpowering as she steps inside. The lighting is minimal, simple halos around each lane and neon at the end of them, little blue lights behind the counter. The punch bowls sit on the center table on the raised carpet over the lanes, and as she looks over them, she sees that a lot of people are apparently already sick of the upstairs scene, lying back in the circles surrounding the game terminals, waiting for others to throw. Or maybe they’re just having their own personal kind of party, as she spots Justin and Trevor trading a vape pen between them and giggling, the air stinking of weed. The guy behind the counter, opposite the lanes, looks about as bored as he could be.

Max takes another look down the lanes, and spots Stella, Alyssa, and...Kate? Yeah, that’s Kate, in the Dorothy costume. She looks cute, and she’s sticking _very_ close to her friends, which is good to see. Max knows where she’s going now.

She wavers for a second in front of the punch table, then decides to just go for it. Victoria follows through on her threats. She takes one of the red solo cups and fills it with blue. As she makes her way over to her friends, she takes a sip. Blech. Still gross. But she makes a deal with herself: _Finish it before you go upstairs._ At least try to see what the fuss is about. Experiment a little. Go out of your comfort zone.

As soon as she steps down onto the lanes, Kate shouts her name. “You look great!” she says, running over to hug her as soon as she’s in range.

“Of course she does,” Alyssa opines as she comes back from rolling what appeared to be a perfect strike. Max already saw her Ursula costume, half-done, but with the purple body paint complete and the hair finished off, she looks pretty much perfect.

“Kate, what are you doing here? I thought...after last time...” Max trails off as the three girls turn to look at her.

“I’m not letting Nathan Prescott keep me away from my friends,” Kate says firmly. “Or Jefferson. Or anyone.”

“And we’re watching her drink really fucking close,” Stella adds from her chair. She’s got a short, tight skirt, a long black jacket, a dress shirt, and a nametag with the name Kitty crossed out, and Karen written underneath it.

“I’m glad to see you,” Max says, hugging her back.

“We’ll keep Victoria from fucking with you,” Alyssa promises. “Also, you’re in the game now.”

Max looks up to the screen to find MAD MAX punched into the scoreboard. _Hang out with the nerds or whatever._ Well, so far, that seems pretty easy. There’s nothing here to remind her of the End of the World Party, just her friends, a game, and a drink in her hand. Maybe this won’t be so bad at all.

She settles in among them, finishing her drink quickly. As they mock each other’s throws (Alyssa is getting close to rolling a perfect game), commiserate about bad photography partnerships (“Daniel doesn’t want to work with _anyone_ lest they ‘compromise his vision,’” Kate moans), and try to guess Stella’s costume (she eventually gives up and plays the song on her phone), Max starts to feel kind of fuzzy. Her skin’s a little tingly, her vision just slightly brighter. When Alyssa busts out her impression of Ursula’s laugh, Max finds she can barely breathe, it’s too funny, Jesus God in Heaven, and Alyssa looks down at her and grins. “Yeah, that stuff’s pretty strong,” she notes. “I only had one and _I’m_ a little tipsy, you know how hard that is?”

“I’m barely halfway through mine,” Stella says. “They must’ve mixed it like 2-parts vodka 1-part punch, it’s ridiculous.”

Max looks over at Kate’s cup of red, then down into her own empty glass. Well. If this is what being drunk is like, it’s not so bad either. She hasn’t even thought about Victoria, or Jefferson, or anyone but the nice girls around her for a long time. When that thought strikes her, she quickly pulls her phone out of her bag. It’s almost midnight. She wonders if Victoria already snuck in and got a shot, but she should go up and find her too.

Alyssa rolls the final frame (a spare, thankfully, though everyone else’s scores are still pathetic compared to hers) and Max excuses herself, getting to her feet and taking her camera out. She feels kind of bouncy, a spring in her step as she heads back out and up the stairs, seeking the music. But once she opens the door to the small auditorium, the bass hitting her full in the chest, her pulse starts racing. Sweat breaks out on her palms. Memories of Jefferson and Victoria and Nathan and a week of horror start filling up her brain, and she wants to just close the door and leave, but dammit, this is a _project_. She slips through and enters the crowd, looking for the tall girl in the black wig.

After what feels like an eternity of pushing through sweaty teenagers, she manages to spot her, and she looks _great_. Her shirt’s unbuttoned almost down to her navel, her skin is flushed and vibrant in the strobe lights, her body is all rhythm and movement, the camera bouncing on its strap against her chest. Max gets a lot of shots, Victoria with her eyes closed, Victoria with her head held high, Victoria _raging_ and carefree and beautiful. Following her progress through the crowd is easy. She makes it stop around her.

Eventually, Victoria catches her eye and winks, then makes a shoo-ing motion with her hand. Right. She knows Max is here now, so they have to break apart until they’re back in their separate worlds. She’d been able to forget, while she was focused on light-timing and framing, but now that she knows she has to leave, the fear returns, panic slamming against her ribs. She pushes through the crowd and emerges gasping out in the hall, the oppressive heat of the dance floor finally gone. She slides her raincoat off for a second, carrying her camera in it as she heads back down the stairs, which is harder than going up was. But she manages to make it back to the alley, and as she walks past the punch bowls, figures, _What the hell_ , and grabs herself another glass.

The girls are even funnier, and better. Kate is so beautiful and vindicated and kind and sweet, and Alyssa is quietly intelligent and bitingly sarcastic and badass in her costume, and Stella is hardworking and smart and sharp as a tack like the song says she is and they are all so good, and Max just wants to tell them that but it’s getting kind of hard to keep track of the conversation and she’d sound kind of stupid and sappy if she just started gushing. Her rolls are _bad_ , and Alyssa even suggests putting up the bumpers, but soon enough the second game is done and Max knows she should head up and see if Victoria can get any prettier.

But as she passes by the punchbowl again, something stabs at her through the fog. A party, a warning to Victoria, a text message. Chloe falling in slow motion, a bullet in her head, her necklace flying in the dark. Rewind rewind rewind rewind. You can’t. She’s dead. She’s dead forever, and you did it. And now you’re partying like you didn’t almost doom this entire town. And if you go up there into the bass and the dark and the sweat, you’ll remember, and you’ll panic.

She fills up a third cup instead. Maybe after that she’ll be able to forget.

She finds herself drifting away in her chair, her mind pleasantly empty, letting the beat fill her up. She passed on this game, and Kate’s beside her and looking a little concerned, but not too much because Max has a smile on her face, and she’s with her friends, and things are good.

“Hey, Max.”

The voice is familiar but not. Not the right tone. Not enough spite. Too much fear.

“Max, the fuck, how much did you have?”

Other voices are telling her to back off, that they’ll take care of her, and someone snaps her fingers in Max’s face. Max opens her eyes.

“Meet me out back in five minutes, okay? Drink some water or something.” Victoria’s wig is a little off-center. It’s kind of cute. Looks like she’s standing on a slope.

Max processes what she said and nods.

“Good. You need to chill out.”

As Victoria walks off, Kate squeezes Max’s hand. “Max, don’t go off alone, not with _her_ ,” she urges.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Max insists, standing up. She wavers a little in place, and takes an experimental step forward, and she’s not gonna fall, so she’s good. “See? I’m okay. Just tired. We gotta talk about the project, I’ve been slacking.”

“But Max—”

“It’s okay, guys, really,” Max interrupts, looking at the three of them in turn. “Victoria will protect me. She already did, once.”

“She what?” Alyssa snorts. “Man, you _are_ wasted.”

“No, no, like, I was sleepwalking, and she took me home to her room so I wouldn’t get caught out on campus all sleepwalk-y,” Max tries to explain.

“Uh, okay, whatever you say,” Stella says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’ll see you guys later,” Max promises, “Don’t worry.”

Kate stands up and presses a cup into her hands. “Drink this and wait a minute, okay? For me,” she asks.

The non-alcoholic stuff is pretty good, too, and it soothes Max’s dry throat. “Man, I didn’t even know I needed that,” Max remarks as she hands it back. “You’re an angel, Kate.” She gives Kate a big hug before she leaves, putting her jacket back on and hoisting her bag over her shoulder and feeling the photos she left in there, making sure they’re not crumpled.

Max isn’t quite sure where ‘out back’ is, but she follows the exit signs that don’t lead out the front door and eventually emerges out into the night, finding Victoria leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. As soon as the door closes behind her, Victoria approaches her, keeping her cigarette between two fingers as she takes Max by the shoulders, crouches down, and looks into her eyes.

“Okay, yeah, you’re not too bad off, you made it out here,” she sighs, standing back up and popping the cigarette back in her mouth. “Jesus, Max, I said like one drink.”

“I only had three,” Max says quietly.

“That’s closer to six, the way we mix it.”

“Oh,” and Max looks down at her silly yellow rainboots.

“Tell me you at least got some good shots.”

“Yeah, yeah I did,” Max says, and that, she’s sure of. She pulls the instant pictures out of her bag and starts thumbing through them. Victoria is so pretty. So wild. So well-shot, in focus, at the perfect time when the lights shine on her skin and bring her whole self out on film. She hands them over to Victoria and hopes she likes them.

Victoria flips through them, and she looks a little bit shaken, but she just says, “Yeah, those are fine,” and hands them back. She takes the camera from around her neck and turns it on, then gives it to Max. “Yours turned out good.”

Max fumbles with the camera for a second, then starts scrolling through the memory. Somehow, Victoria managed to get a bunch of pictures of Max where Max isn’t in the center. She’s off to the side, almost disappearing into her friends, but there’s always something about her that stands out. A light shining on her blue hair, or a goofy laughing expression, or a kind and dopey smile. And, apparently, Victoria had managed to get her on the dancefloor too, before Max had spotted her, because the same technique shows in shots of a Max looking nervous and sweaty and awkward between unidentifiable bodies, but always caught in the strobe or positioned under a neon light, or with a disco-ball reflection lighting up her blue eyes.

“You made me look beautiful,” Max mumbles.

“Well, you are.”

Max’s head swivels, and Victoria looks kind of shocked that she even said that, but then Max realizes that Victoria’s skin is flushed, her gaze foggy, her posture less strict and sure than usual. She’s been drinking, too. Her words are coming out without the edge.

“Victoria...” Max begins, but Victoria cuts her off.

“What? You know I’m a big fat dyke. Might as well act like one when I’m around you.” Victoria looks away and takes a drag off her cigarette. “Plus, there’s a chance you might not even remember this conversation. I don’t know what the fuck your tolerance is.”

Max steps closer to her, holding out the camera. As Victoria takes it back, their fingers brush against each other, and Max’s heart pounds in her chest. “I mean, fuck,” Victoria says, and she swallows, and then, “I might as well be fucking honest with you now, right? You’re too nice to tell anyone. You don’t care about what anyone else thinks, as long as you’re helping.” She looks at her cigarette, then throws it to the ground, stomps it out with her heel. “How do you do it?” she asks, putting her hands on Max’s shoulders. “How are you happy like that?”

Max is about to say, “I’m not”, she’s about to say, “I’ve fucked up so much,” but Victoria’s kissing her now, and she tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and blue raspberry and flavored lipstick and Max just kisses her back. Because Victoria is so pretty. Because Victoria, in some fucked-up way, loves her, wants her, wants to be her, something like that, and it feels so good to be desired that way. And maybe Max wants her too, maybe Max has her own little demon, telling her that her Victoria project was always about _this_ , not anything else.

Max feels hot and sweaty again by the time they break apart. But it’s not the suffocating heat of the auditorium. It’s coming from inside her, and it’s almost frightening, how intense it is, but it feels so _good_. So primal. Victoria’s feeling it too, it’s in how soft her eyes are, how relaxed she’s become. She tries to tighten up, act like Queen Bee again, but she’s shaking as she stands to her full height and looks around.

“We, uh, we shouldn’t be so public,” Victoria says, taking Max’s wrist. “Come on.”

They run, a little lopsidedly, to Victoria’s car, and she unlocks it and gets in the back seat, and Max gets why, and the idea is scandalous and fast and it lights her head on fire. She climbs right in after her, and the two look at each other, breath heavy in the dark.

“Max, do you really...” Victoria’s hand touches her shoulder. Her lips quiver.

“I really think I do,” Max admits, reaching out for her.

As Max kisses Victoria’s cheek, she tastes salt, sees her tears shining. “I didn’t think,” Victoria whispers. “I—I thought you were straight, or that you didn’t—that I wasn’t good enough for you, I’m never good enough, I’m—”

Max tastes her lips again.

Victoria’s body starts to grow urgent in her arms, and Max’s heart pumps madly as Victoria pushes back, lays Max across the seats, pulls her bag off and gently sets it down on the floor. Max knows where the heat is coming from, between her legs, and she wants this, she wants Victoria on top of her and kissing her and taking off her jacket and fumbling with the zipper on her jeans and oh, God, “ _Yes_ ,” she breathes as Victoria’s finger presses against her underwear. It’s insane, it’s crazy, they shouldn’t be doing this, not so soon, but Max helps out anyway, pushing her pants down, letting Victoria see everything.

So she’s not in a bed and this is not her husband and this is not how this is supposed to go, but right now, Max cannot care. All that matters to her is Victoria, her tongue in her mouth, her fingers pumping hard, in and out of her, circling her clit, it all fades into sensation and love and pleasure and slick sounds in the confines of this unlit space. She grasps for Victoria’s hair, finds the wig, throws it off, grabs again, holds tight.

She doesn’t feel it coming, it just _does_ , all at once, and her moans fill Victoria’s mouth, and her whole body tenses up and stays there for a solid thirty seconds, Victoria’s fingers still pumping. As she collapses back onto the seats, Victoria slowly withdraws her hand, then tugs at Max’s clothes, putting them back in place, zipping her up. But Max isn’t done. She needs to feel Victoria like that, needs to give back, needs to hear Victoria’s pleasure.

She doesn’t resist when Max abruptly sits up and takes hold of her collar and kisses her, pushing her against the opposite door. She squirms under Max, unbuttoning her fly, unzipping herself, while Max undoes her shirt, _she’s not wearing a bra, of course not, it’d mess with the look_ , and as soon as her breasts are out Max dives for her nipple and just sucks. Victoria’s groans are pure and perfect pleasure and emotion in Max’s ear, and as her hand travels under Victoria’s panties, it all feels right. She’s smooth. She’s wet. She’s thrusting against Max’s trembling fingers, begging for more, begging to finish.

When she does, Max knows. She makes this high-pitched squeal, short, uncontrolled, animalistic, and convulses, forcing Max’s hand out of the tight space of her underwear. She holds her close, listening to her breathe, burying her head in her neck, willing to stay here forever, as long as Victoria’s this peaceful, this happy.

But she’s not.

Max feels the muscles in Victoria’s neck tighten. And then, suddenly, roughly, Victoria shoves her away and puts her head in her hands, shaking with fury. “Get out,” she whispers.

Max’s heart clenches in her chest. “What—What did I—”

“Get _out_ ,” Victoria shouts, weakly shoving her against the door, a pathetic attack, not really an attempt but a flailing of the arms, like a child trying to swat at flies. There’s so much anger in her face, but it’s all uncoordinated, lashing out. Max fumbles around the floor, finds her bag, her jacket, and then Victoria is pushing against her with all her might so she opens the door and tumbles out onto the parking lot, lying on her side as Victoria slams the door shut behind her.

She scrambles to sit up and watches with blurred confusion and terror and shame as Victoria struggles into the driver’s seat and puts the key in the ignition. She hears a muffled, “Fuck!”, and then the car kicks into gear and squeals out across the parking lot, out to the street. And leaves her alone.

She shrugs into her jacket, clings her bag to her chest, and stares up at the stars like they will make this make sense. The moon is just a tiny crescent, and then an old song floats though her head, _and what if there were two, side-by-side in orbit, around the fairest sun_ , and she’s crying and gasping and _sobbing_ in this lot because everything that felt so good and right has suddenly turned to shit for no reason, the ache between her legs has gone from invigorating to embarrassing, the sweat on her is just disgusting, not a sign of love and compassion and connection but just stupid, blind, drunk desperation. And now something else is crawling up from her stomach, and she drops her bag and jumps to her feet and _sprints_ , stumbling across the parking lot to the edge where it meets the forest and she hunches over and it all floods out of her, blue and burning.

When there’s nothing left, when she can’t even retch anymore, she wipes her mouth on her sleeve and makes her way back to her bag. She sits back down, a lone figure in the middle of this nothing. She’s so exhausted. Her eyes hurt from crying. Her throat is so dry.

She has to get home.

She can’t tell Kate or Alyssa or Stella. They’ll think they know what happened, and they’ll blame Victoria, but it has to be Max. Max did something wrong. Max fucked it up, somehow, because she always does, even if she has magical fucking powers to reverse her shitty decisions. She has to call someone who wasn’t here tonight. That way, she doesn’t need to tell them anything. Doesn’t have to talk.

She digs her phone out of her pocket and picks Warren from her list of contacts. It rings for a long time, too long, and then—

“Max?” Brooke’s vocal fry comes out of the phone, and Max is already crying again, but she needs to say something.

“P-put Warren on,” she stammers, “Please.”

“Yeah, okay, hold on a sec,” and Max hears the smacking of lips, a tired question, “We really gotta stop?” and it hurts.

“Yo, Max. What’s going on?”

"C-can you come and get me?”

“Huh? From where?”

“The Vortex Club party.”

“Max, are you okay? You sound—”

“ _Please,_ Warren,” Max pleads, choking back a sob. “Please, just help me.”

“Shit, Max, I’m on my way.” She hears the sound of an engine coming to life. “Me and Brooke aren’t too far out. We’ll be there soon. What happened?”

“I’m in the parking lot.”

“Okay, Max, but please, you sound really messed up, tell me—”

Max cancels the call and hangs her head. She tries to hold it back, but it doesn’t stay in her, it forces itself out through her lungs, through her eyes. She presses her bag against her face and wills it to stop, to stop before they get here, so she won’t worry them.

She’s not sure how long it is before the headlights blind her, before Brooke is lifting her up and surveying her and hissing, “Who the fuck did this to you,” but Max just wants to go home, “Please take me home.”

Brooke is fucking _furious_ , and Warren just looks terrified, but Max can’t tell them what they want to know, it’s too much, just too much right now. She has a whole week’s worth of memories that didn’t happen crashing on top of what _just_ happened and she just wants to go home.

Eventually, Brooke stuffs her in the back seat, and they drive silently back to the dorms. Max spots Victoria’s car in the lot, crooked in its space, but not damaged. Brooke links arms with her for the walk to her room, Warren trailing behind like a lost puppy.

Max sits down on her bed in the dark, lets her bag drop to the floor, Polaroids of Victoria slipping out of the fold. Brooke sits down next to her and throws an arm around her shoulders.

“Do you wanna talk now?” she asks. Brooke comes through, in the end. So does Warren. So do Kate and Alyssa and Stella, and Max is the only one who always fucks it up.

“No. I—I’m gonna be okay. I just need some sleep.”

Brooke looks at her like she’s crazy. But she just says, “All right. Text me or Warren if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Brooke rubs her back one more time, then stands up and takes Warren’s hand. “Be safe, Max,” she says quietly as they leave, shutting the door behind them.

Max walks over and flips on the light, so strange and overpowering after so much darkness for so long. It feels unreal. She takes the pictures from the floor and slowly goes through them. She is so beautiful. She was so happy, before Max touched her.

Max lays the photos on her desk. She spots the ziploc bag next to her laptop, with five little blue pills still inside it. Maybe she should take them. Stop fucking with everyone in Arcadia Bay, ruining their lives for her own self-satisfied hero fantasies.

No. Not tonight.

She flicks the light back off, strips off in the dark, still feeling phantoms of Victoria’s touch. She buries her head in the pillow.

She doesn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

Victoria stares into the mirror.

_You could only fuck her because she was drunk. Too stupid to push you away. Fucking predator. Monster._

She grips her switchblade in her hand. The one Nathan gave her. To protect herself.

What if she just slashed herself across the fucking face? This beautiful face that her parents made her work so hard on, that she works so hard on, every day. Put a big old scar, right across the middle. Ruin the symmetry. Nick the eyebrows. Marr the lips.

_You wanted her so badly that you couldn’t wait to find an excuse to get her fucked up. And you’ll never get that need fulfilled any other way. That’s the only way you’ll ever get off, if someone else is suffering._

She slides her slacks down her legs and sits on the edge of her bed. The blade hovers over her thigh.

_Coward._

Blood runs down her pale skin.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When the cackle of regret, so shrill_   
>  _Keeps growing louder still_   
>  _I'll trade in the little blue pills_   
>  _For a needle and an empty bed_


	6. My Bones Do Ache

Flakes of blue on the shower floor. The sound of the water can’t mask Max’s tears. Victoria waits for a stall to open up.

 

* * *

 

Victoria sits across from Max, at a picnic table on the quad, her prints and Max’s between them. She arranges Max’s selfies across from her own shots, subtracts a few of each, puts them on the other side of the folder. Max leans over, slides the folder to her side, does the same with Victoria’s photos.

They give and take and take again, until there’s only four pictures left. A perfect, concise contrast, between private and public, prepared and candid, the self and the observer. A good quadtych. A solid project. If Victoria thinks about it, she knows it’d be good for both of their portfolios. But she’s never going to show this to anyone. Not after the assignment’s over.

Max reaches for Victoria’s hand, and she wrenches it away, gives Max a glare. She can’t touch her, not ever again. It didn’t help anything. It made everything worse. Max looks down.

“I’ll get them blown up, get a frame and shit,” Victoria says, sliding the rejects across the table and closing the folder.

“I could do it.”

“I’m not letting you fuck it up.”

Max stares at her feet, fist forming, releasing, forming again on the table. Victoria’s words have edges again. Good.

Victoria stands up and leaves her. They don’t talk again for over a month.

 

* * *

 

Every night, the blood flows.

It feels like justice. Chipping away at a punishment she’s deserved for a long time. The marks surround her thighs. She wears long skirts and dark pants, but she’s not sure if she really cares if people see the scars. Caring about the people in this school seems so far off.

It makes it easier to sleep. Relieves the pressure. Like the old doctors were right, and sometimes you just need to bleed to get everything back into balance. She hasn’t touched the little blue pills since the week of Halloween.

Victoria still goes to Vortex Club parties. But she doesn’t arrange them. It’s pointless, stupid. She’s too busy corresponding with gallery owners, sending off her work, having office hours with Varte. A real career is suddenly so much more important, and so within her grasp, right now. Courtney and Taylor stop trying to reach her. They barely even speak. Victoria’s just a given presence at the parties, but she doesn’t _do_ anything besides drink and dance and leave. Everyone at Blackwell is forgetting why they were scared of her. Why they ever thought much about her at all. It’s so much easier this way. And high school bullshit is going to disappear in a year. Her career will have to last the rest of her life.

She takes no selfies. Tweets nothing. Her social media lays dormant, unattended, gathers virtual dust. She sets up a professional website. Pays for the domain and everything.

Max is so quiet.

The two of them, specters of the Blackwell social scene, once important and now lost. But people still check on Max. They still invite her out, they still talk to her in class, they still care. Max doesn’t laugh, or smile, or cry. She does her schoolwork. She takes her photos. She eats, breathes, exists. She doesn’t sleep.

Brooke, Dana, Juliet,  Alyssa, Stella, Warren. Kate. Max has so many people surrounding her. They hate Victoria, and now that she’s shattered her shield of social invulnerability, they aren’t afraid to say so. They give her murderous glares in the halls. Vandalize her door. Cluster around each other when she approaches. They think they can hurt her back, somehow. They know that Victoria is responsible for Max. For everything. Someone writes JEFFERSON’S LITTLE WHORE on Victoria’s slate. She doesn’t erase it. Samuel does, eventually.

Victoria doesn’t go back home for Thanksgiving. Max does, and it’s a relief, not to see her around campus. To avoid thinking about her for three days at a time. But she still cuts, still bleeds. It’s habit, now. It’s part of the bedtime ritual. Rituals are all she has.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow is Christmas Break.

She’ll be home, and she’ll be able to tell her parents. _Kept a 4.0. Got a solo gallery showing scheduled for June. Phone interview on the 23rd._ No form rejection letters, these days. Always hand-typed, full of suggestions for other places.

She’ll be home.

She’s nursing her bottle of Fireball pretty hard.

When Max knocks at the door, it’s somehow not surprising. And she’s drunk enough, and sick of tomorrow already, so she just wordlessly opens the door and lets her in.

“Victoria—”

Victoria thrusts the bottle at her. “Finals suck. I get it.”

“No, I—”

“Fucking take it.”

Max obeys. Meek. Pathetic. Beautiful, in her little shorts, her soft, faded t-shirt. Victoria closes the door behind her. Runs a hand along her shoulder as she shudders from her pull.

Victoria has broken this girl. Torn away that new life, that purpose, that she’d had before Halloween. But that means she can get what she wants, what burns in her every night before she slides the blade along her flesh. One more time. Just to scratch the itch.

Max shakes when Victoria kisses her. But she melts. Like she did in the car. Victoria reaches for the bottle, but Max keeps it back, drinks again, and again, while Victoria presses kisses into her collarbone. Victoria did this. Victoria made her an addict. As bad as herself. Specters.

After Max sets the bottle on the floor, Victoria can imagine, for a moment. That this is normal. That they’re girlfriends, coming off from some wild night together, falling into bed and loving each other. God, Victoria loves her, so much, her talent, her freckles, her eyes, her soft voice, and look what she’s done. Look how Max just lays on her back and accepts Victoria’s rough touch, her clumsy, stupid fingers. Look at how fucked-up things had to get before they could even kiss.

When Max comes, it fills Victoria with a twisted sense of guilt and pride and pleasure and lust, the way she quivers, the low moan of her name, the blue eyes squeezed shut, Max’s soft, small, warm body. Victoria just wants to lay on top of her, keep her hand in her shorts, stay like this, pretend this is real. That her love isn’t worse than her hate.

Max kisses her, this time, her hands trembling on either side of Victoria’s face, drawing her close, her tongue still inexperienced but so alive and passionate that Victoria can believe this is real, that Max really loves her back and isn’t just a victim. They roll over, switch positions, and Max continues her assault, and before Victoria can stop her, she’s pulling down Victoria’s pajama pants. Her fingers brush over the scars.

Victoria can see it coming. Max’s lip quivers, her eyes fixed on Victoria’s bared thighs, her body shaking. She lays her head down on Victoria’s chest and sobs.

“Stop,” Victoria orders, feeling a lump in her throat and hating it and wanting it gone and wanting Max to stop, to stop making her feel so fucking guilty and sad and fucked-up. Jefferson’s little whore. Jefferson’s little whore.

“Stop fucking _crying_ ,” and she shoves her off against the wall. Max buries her face in her hands, fragments of words slipping between her fingers, and as Victoria steams on the other side of the bed, she makes out, “I did this, I did this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about.” Victoria hikes her pants back up. “I’m the one doing it.”

“I t-thought I could help, and I just made everything worse, I always do, I always—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Victoria grabs her hands and forces them away from her face, staring into her reddened blue eyes. “Shut the fuck up,” she repeats, “I’m the fuckup. Not you.”

“You have no idea,” Max whispers. “You wouldn’t believe me. You never would. No one will.”

“You think your pathetic ass could do anything to me?” Victoria sneers. “You think _you're_ the reason everything’s fucked? Please. Like your skinny little ass could ever accomplish anything. Your fuckups mean nothing to me. It’s all me. Always has been. Nathan’s best friend. Jefferson’s bitch.”

“You _don’t know_ —”

“Get out.”

Max freezes at those words. So often repeated. So spiteful, angry, final. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes darting everywhere. Then they seem to settle on something.

“I said _get out_ ,” Victoria says, shoving her off the bed, but suddenly Max is running for her desk, snatching up the abandoned Ambien bottle, unscrewing the cap. Victoria’s limbs aren’t responsive enough, they’re clumsy and useless and she falls to her face when she tries to leap up off the bed, and she hears Max choking as she swallows, oh, God, how many? How many?

Max tries to walk over her, but Victoria flips onto her back and grabs her ankle, and she falls to the floor too, right in front of the door. She squirms as Victoria gets on her knees and sits her up, holding the back of her neck. She thrashes her head back and forth like a cat trying to avoid a pill, but Victoria’s persistent, her arms strong and anger and fear flooding her muscles, and she manages to get two fingers inside of her mouth, down her throat.

Max, chokes, coughs, and sprays thick black chunks onto Victoria’s chest, smelling sweet and sick and cinnamon, and Victoria has no idea if the pills are in that disgusting mass and she’s about to throw up herself but she can’t, Max is going to die, Max is going to fucking die if she doesn’t _do something_.

She grabs Max by her collar and yanks her to her feet, using her body as a brace, and flings her door open, dragging her out into the hall. Max is choking and snotty, black crap hanging out of her nose, liquid dribbling from her mouth. At first, it’s, _I have to drive her to the hospital_ , but her keys are behind her and she’s drunk so she might just kill her anyway, kill them both, and then she really will be like Nathan, a murderer. A fucking killer.

She screams.

There aren’t any words to say what’s happening, why she needs help, but Alyssa’s door slams open down the hall. She pounds up towards them as soon as she spots them, and shoves Victoria back from Max.

“What the fuck did you do?!” she yells as more doors open behind her.

“S-she took a bunch of Ambien, and she’s been drinking, and—”

Alyssa hits her. _Hard_ , holy shit, she’s got a punch. Victoria hears a _crack_ and falls flat on her back. “J-just take her to the hospital, God, please,” Victoria babbles through blood as Alyssa towers over her, fists clenched at her sides. “Kick my ass later, just fucking help her, _help her_.”

Alyssa’s fury fades as she turns back to Max, wavering and limp and about to fall. Alyssa links their elbows and starts rushing down the hall, stopping for just a second to grab her keys from her room as people peek through open doors and stare down at Victoria, prone and bloodied and sobbing as she watches Max leave. She crawls back into her room and tries to stand up, dizzy, and grabs a towel from her closet, _God_ , she needs to get this shit off of her, she can feel the nausea in her gut, the pain behind her eyes, taste the blood as it runs into her mouth from her nose.

She runs into the bathroom, the people she roused apparently closing their doors and trying not to get in the way. She throws her slimy shirt in the trash can, and her pants, everything, why not, it’s all disgusting, it all touched her. She gets in the shower stall, hangs up her towel, and blasts the water at maximum heat, and sits down, curling up, hugging her knees.

Blood swirls into the drain. She can’t breathe through her nose. She touches it, and whimpers, feeling the swelling flesh, beneath her eyes, around the bridge. It’s going to be crooked. It’s going to be ruined forever. Good. Good, it’s what she deserves.

The water leaves her skin raw and red and aching. Once the blood stops flowing, once the tears are spent, she gets to her feet and shuts off the shower. The towel feels unfairly soft against her. She looks in the mirror, at her fucked-up, purpling face. Now it finally shows on the outside. A monster. A killer. Jefferson’s little whore.

 

* * *

 

Max doesn’t come back.

It takes too long for Victoria to even find out if she survived or not, and thank God, she did. But her parents took her out of Blackwell. And nobody will talk to Victoria about her. She has no idea if she’s really okay, if she’s safe back in Seattle, away from her. So, after a week of asking around after the school year starts back up, Victoria just stops talking. To anyone.

She functions. She keeps up the work on her portfolio, her career. Acceptance letters start coming in. They call her new work haunting. Surreal. Dark. Varte uses similar words, but with less praise in her voice, more worry. But she doesn’t matter. She’s not typical. She didn’t like Jefferson’s work before everyone found out who he was. But others did, and they like what Victoria can do. They want to dig deep into October and rip out everything that hides inside of it, using Victoria as the instrument. She knows what they want. It seems like it’s the only thing she's able to do, diving into the dark places and trying to dredge up the art.

Her crooked nose is the last straw, and Victoria’s no longer anyone at all at Blackwell, besides a hated name on the lips of those who loved Max. She doesn't press charges on Alyssa. Her parents never find out who did it. She stops bothering with makeup, with controlling her hair. She lets it grow out and hide her face like a veil. It feels good, not giving a shit, letting her work be her only worry. Her parents aren’t so happy. Every time they get a photo of her, they send her messages saying shit about proper appearances for a Chase and looking right and giving the right impression, but somehow, it doesn’t get through. They offer to have it corrected with surgery, and Victoria deletes that e-mail with the doctor’s information. Fuck them. They’re gnats. They’re scum. They made her that way, they made her the person who almost killed Max. All that matters is the work. Victoria, as a person, doesn’t need to exist.

She graduates. She walks. She gets into art college. She graduates. She walks. She leaves her parents’ house.

She watches Max's career. The name "Maxine Caulfield" gets thrown around a lot around her. A lot of comparisons get made. Blackwell alumni, studied under Jefferson, one who's work entirely escapes the self, the other's reveling in it. Max stops using her instant camera. But she's still in so many shots. Victoria watches her grow up, age defining her features just a little bit more. She's still so beautiful. They're never in the same city. By design, on one or both of their parts. Victoria's never sure how hard they're trying to avoid each other. She looks for herself in Max's shots, in her artist's statements, in her albums. She thinks she sees the scars that Blackwell left. But she's never certain.

Victoria functions. She moves up, into different circles than her parents might like, but she makes her money, makes a name.

She wonders if impressionable budding photographers have her albums. She signs each one with a warning at the end. And a dedication.

_For M._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am so tired_   
>  _My bones do ache_   
>  _There’s no time to rest, for now we’ll have to wait_   
>  _And finally when I can lay with you in bed_   
>  _For some reason_   
>  _I’ll drink alone instead._


End file.
